


She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

by latdetvara



Category: No Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:18:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latdetvara/pseuds/latdetvara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was art. Like street art, not some abstract splatter paint in a museum. She was raw and edgy, but cool and beautiful. I’d watched her from afar, of course, but had never been this close. She was incredible up close, I couldn’t believe it. And she was sitting right next to me. By choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

She was art. Like street art, not some abstract splatter paint in a museum. She was raw and edgy, but cool and beautiful. I’d watched her from afar, of course, but had never been this close. She was incredible up close, I couldn’t believe it. And she was sitting right next to me. By choice.   
I’d seen her before, almost every day in almost the exact same spot. She was always sketching. So I’d sit, watching her watching everyone while she sketched away, pen and paper easily colliding just by the graceful movements of her fingertips. She always sat directly beneath the arched doorway to the library, the huge concrete rotunda blocking anyone from seeing her, unless you were me. I sat in the only spot where she was visible: directly across from the library next to a scrawny, newly-planted tree, the only angle where I could see her perfectly. This sounds creepy, but the sapling was my spot first. She’d just appeared one day, and since then, not noticing her was impossible.   
Her long and dusty black hair fell on either side of her face like wispy curtains. She always had on a pair of white Converse sneakers and a NYU hoodie, even though we don’t go to NYU. She was constantly lugging around one of those huge body bags, you know the ones. It was probably a prerequisite for Art Majors to look like serial killers before they could “make it”. (I could probably point out that we go to a college for art and design, so it was obvious who the Art Majors were.) She might sound normal to you, but to me, she was magnetic.   
“Hi, I’m Dahlia.” She said; and with that, I was already head over heels.   
“I’m Mic.” I replied, glancing at her while I throw my book to the side. She seemed to notice that I was nervous, but it didn’t stop her.  
“Like Jagger?”  
I nod, “Without the K.”  
“Okay, Mic Without The K. Tell me, what are you reading?”   
I glanced back over to where my discarded book lay, and I felt her eyes follow me. I’d never been this aware of a girl before, it set me off balance in the most amazing way possible.   
“Just Gatsby.”  
“Lit Major?” She asks, smiling, like she genuinely wants to know what a loser like me is studying. I watched as she picked pieces of grass out of the dirt.  
I shake my head. “Engineering, actually.”   
“Impressive. Are you going to build the world’s next greatest monument?”   
“That’s the dream.”  
“You go Glen Coco.” She mumbled, smirking.   
“Nice reference.” I mumbled back, shoving my hands between my thighs because I had no idea what to do with them.   
“You watch Mean Girls?”  
“Of course I watch Mean Girls, who hasn’t seen Mean Girls?”  
“Apparently no one.”  
Someone yelled to her across the sidewalk, motioning for her to join them. She waved and stood up, looking down at me.   
“Well, I best be going. Later, Jagger.” She saluted me, then picked up her bags, slinging them over her shoulder.   
“Without the K.” I mutter, glaring at the two useless hands between my legs.   
“Without the K.” She said, walking away. 

Let me quickly clarify that I am not a loser. Not according to my mom, at least. And I do, in fact, have friends, they’re just sort of nerdy. They play a lot of video games. And they definitely don’t talk to mysterious, beautiful girls like I just did.   
Also, let me clarify that inside of my head was a constant stream of yelling, which is exactly why I was acting like I had no idea what I was doing. Because in reality, I really had no idea what I was doing. I might be a loser, but at least I can own up to being socially incompetent. Which by the way, is sort of my speciality. Awkward is my forte. My everyday life is fraught with potential pitfalls, and as it happens, it seems the potentiality of a social downward spiral raises exponentially around girls. Not just Dahlia, although she did send me entirely out of orbit, but girls in general.   
Cameron, my best friend, generally calls me a donut. Not for the reason you’re thinking though. He calls me a donut because I am not a bagel. (Cameron is a little obsessive over comparing things to food. He’s also 250 pounds and never eats vegetables. Not even mashed potatoes.) And he likes to remind me of my donut status. Frequently. This is because --thanks to Buzzfeed and Cameron’s obsession with online quizzes-- donuts are the fun ones, the cool ones, definitely not the boring ones, like a bagel. But, I think, that if I were a donut, I would probably be the plain donut. Not the awesome ones with the filling or sprinkles or chocolate covered ones. A plain donut. Probably not even a Krispy Kreme. The ones that get picked last or the ones that kids cry about getting stuck with. A plain donut. Cameron is a New York Bagel, the ones that have sesame seeds and you eat them with cream cheese. The awesomest kind of bagel, but still smart and sensible. Cameron is a bagel. I am a donut. If Dahlia were a donut or a bagel, she’d be a cookie. Or cinnamon roll. 

“Hey, Mic-Without-the-K-Jagger.” She sat down next me by my sapling.   
“Hi, Dahlia.”  
She pulled up some grass. “You’ve finished Gatsby?”  
“I have.”  
“That’s nice.”  
“Yeah.” I watched as she picked pieces. She loves me, she loves me not.  
“You want to know something?”   
“Anything.”  
“I really hated Gatsby.”  
“I did too.”  
She nodded, but didn’t reply.   
“So,” I said, thinking of things I could say.  
“So?”  
“So, I think, that you, are nice.” That wasn’t my best plan.   
“Thank you. Have you considered writing my biography? I’ll split the proceeds 50/50.”  
“60/40.”  
She dumped the grass out of her hands. She loves me not. “70/30.”  
“Wait who’s getting what?”  
“We’ll rock paper scissors for it when the time comes. Get writing, Jagger.”

So, maybe I am a loser.   
A pretty large, incomprehensible, mega-loser. I really really really really really didn’t want to say “You’re nice” but it slipped. She probably would have ran away if it wouldn’t have been so crowded outside. What I wanted to say was “Hey Dahlia, would you like to go out sometime?” That didn’t happen. Obviously. But, in my defense, it was obviously a really off day for me. Sort of. You can pretty much just call me Socially-Incompetent-Mic from now on. That could definitely be a band name. They would probably only have a tambourine and a really bad guitarist; and their YouTube videos would only get thumbs-down and troll comments.   
Also, I actually liked Gatsby. Other than the terrible self-centered-ness of Gatsby and Daisy and Nick and Tom, obviously. I liked that a man reinvented himself from nothing, creating an entire new world. He did it so a girl would like him, but that’s beside the point. The point is, that love, at its best, is permanent and impersonal. That’s like Gatsby’s whole thing. It’s his entire theme, his status quo. Their love affair seems like something that happens between two people by complete chance, but, Gatsby hopes that their love is strong enough to become more than that. Like a law of nature, fate maybe, that can’t be changed by circumstance or choice. I mean, it’s totally irrational and crazy but that’s Gatsby. And that’s not really what the book is about, but like Gatsby, we shall march on and keep hoping.   
Obviously, I’m a bit of a romantic loser. Mic-the-hopeless-romantic-socially-incompetent-loser. Yeah, that’s a great band name.

“So, Mic-Without-the-K Jagger,” Dahlia said, throwing me off. She plopped down next to me, her presence awakening my senses. I always had to give myself the ‘Stay cool, Mic’ talk when she was around. And lately, she’d been around, always sitting with me by the growing tree.  
“So, Dahlia.”  
“When are you going to ask me out?” She asked, always indignant.   
“Right now.”  
A chunk of grass pulled out with her surprise. “Really?”  
“Yes.”  
“Right now?”  
“Yeah, if you’d let me get around to it.”   
“Oh, sorry.”  
“You should be.” I watched as she sorted through the pieces.   
“Hey. If you keep talking smack you won’t have a date.”  
“If you keep interrupting, you won’t either.”  
“Good one.”  
“Thanks, I just came up with that now.”  
“So, what are we going to do?”  
“Well, if you’re cool with it, my friends and I always go bowling on Thursday nights. Would you like to come?”  
“Love to.” She was still picking through the grass. She loves me, she loves me not.  
“Perfect. It’s the Glo-Bowl Alley. I’m not sure if you’re familiar--”  
“Totally am, should I meet you?”  
“What kind of date would that be? No, I’ll walk with you.”  
“Great.”  
“I’ll come to your dorm at 5:30 then.”  
“Can’t wait.”  
She loves me. “Me either.”

I changed my mind. I might be a Krispy Kreme.

The thing about Thursday Bowling Night, is that it’s a thing because it was a Thursday night on which I tried to kill myself. Thursdays were never my day. You have Mondays or Wednesdays. I had Thursdays. So now Cameron, his girlfriend Mia, our friend Jake, our other friend Brian, and our other other friend Alex, all decided it would be a good idea to keep an eye on me. And thus, Thursday Bowling Night was invented. But don’t worry about me, it’s been almost 2 years since Thursday Bowling Night (TBN) was established, and I think that everyone, except Cameron and me, forgot its original intent.   
We’ve all been in the same group of friends since 7th grade, when Mrs. Olson threw us all into the same large group project. It was by chance really, even though all of our last names start with R. I don't even remember what the project was about, just that we had somehow gotten sucked into Harry Potter weekend and then were cosplaying the Weasleys together. Cameron and Mia were Arthur and Molly, Alex was George and Fred, I was Ron, Brian was Ginny, and Jake was a morphling of Charlie and Bill. We even went out to the mall as the Weasleys.   
We've acquired girlfriends over the years, but Mia was the only one who was here to stay. They’ve been together since 6th grade, so she was stuck with us when we came along. She and Cameron will get married someday. No doubt I'll be Cameron's best man. It's been said between the guys that Mia used to have a crush on me, but I was apparently oblivious and Cameron snatched her up instead. Besides, she's not my type anyway. She likes Minecraft and anime too much. And she wears sneakers without socks sometimes. 

"Do you go out with losers often, then?" Mia asked. TBN turned out to be a double date.  
Dahlia looked at her, confused. "Losers? Where? I don't see any losers around here."  
"Mic! It's your turn!" Dahlia told me. I was too busy smiling at her to notice.   
I was reigning champion. And had been for the past 6 months. Not even Dahlia would win, even if we were on a date.   
She seemed to know that. “If you get a strike, I’ll leave.”  
I got a spare.

I like bowling. Bowling is fun. When I was younger, my parents would take me bowling to avoid spending time together. But really, those bowling days were the best days of my life. It made us seem like a real family, instead of a broken threepiece. My mom still has photos of me in jean overalls and bowling shoes that made me look like I had clown feet.   
Sometimes I picture falling in love with Dahlia like bowling. She’s the pins. The ball is me and my heart. Position your feet on the proper boards for the shot. Visualize and then get into the correct stance. Choose and focus on a lane target. Take a deep breath, exhale and roll the ball to your target.  
My mom used to say falling in love was easy. For her, it must have been. I’d never felt it before. But with Dahlia, it feels a bit like acid reflux. Like you know, your chest will begin to burn and it’ll suddenly become quite difficult to swallow. It’s like that. It’s also kind of like the beginning of rollercoaster rides. I don’t know about you, but roller coasters scare the shit out of me. With Dahlia, it’s like the first couple of seconds on a rollercoaster as your cart climbs slowly up the lift hill, you know what I mean? You can hear your heart beating in your ears and and your stomach is dropping out of your pants because you’re either going to die in the process of this rollercoaster or have a thrill of a lifetime. That’s what being around Dahlia is like. It’s scary. And wonderful. And it’s absolutely nothing like bowling. 

“Hey, Mic.” She interrupted my orbital thoughts, the ones circling around her.   
“Hey, Dahlia.”  
“What are you up to?”  
“Um, reading?”  
“Don’t look at me like that.”  
I didn’t know what I was looking at her like. “Okay.”  
“Hey, Mic?”  
“Yeah?”  
She pulled at the grass. “Are you ever going to kiss me?”  
“Yeah.”  
“When?”  
“I don’t know, Dahlia.”  
“Why not?”  
“When are you going to kiss me?”  
“I don’t know, whenever you kiss me.”  
“Okay.”  
“Hey, Mic?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Can I kiss you?”

I’ve never kissed a girl before. So you can imagine the yelling happening in my head. If it had been a constant stream before, now it was a constant waterfall. Like Niagra.   
I felt like I was looking into a cave where some sort of dragon was hiding and I was totally unarmed. Like hopping onto a diving board and then realizing that the water was 50 feet down, and then you realized that you were going to belly flop. I was screaming. Mentally, of course. I was jumping off of a diving board. I was on the board and looking down and scared out of my mind. Then it was like when you throw yourself off, the two second drop of pure exhilaration, and then the water catches you, and you realize that there was nothing to worry about.  
But kissing a girl is not like kissing Dahlia. Kissing Dahlia is like uncovering the lost kingdom of unicorns, or discovering Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are, actually in fact, real. Kissing Dahlia is better than the movies make it seem. It’s better than cotton candy. Her touch is electric. She is magnetic and static and when she is around, I feel compelled to be near her and when she touches me I am always reminded why. Kissing her is better than finding your headphones wedged in between the couch cushions. That’s exactly what kissing Dahlia was like, except a billion times better. I do not exaggerate. It’s that feeling when you wake up at 2am and realize that you don’t have to be up for another 5 hours.   
Dahlia is what chocolate tastes like, she’s the fall days where the leaves are all sorts of colors and she’s cozy cafes and the amazing conversations about interesting things, she’s colorful vinyl records and discovering new music, she’s fluffy puppies and tiny kittens, she’s warm and she makes things matter. She’s luminous and radiant, she’s rainbows and sunrises and sunsets, she’s laughter and raindrops on windowsills. Dahlia is the water that catches you when you jump off of that board.   
I’d get back up on that diving board again just to kiss her one more time.

Dahlia’s pulling up the grass thing is apparent now, showing where she’s been sitting for the past year. She did it the first time she sat next to me, she’s doing it now, while I write this, she’ll probably do it in the future too.   
She is art. Like graffiti or finger paint, not Van Gogh or even Picasso. She is gritty and brutal, but sophisticated and magnificent. Even now, after have been the gift of being around her, she still astounds me. She, her whole being and aura, was the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld. And she is sitting right next to me. By choice.  
She is a cinnamon roll. And I am a Krispy Kreme. She’s the water after I jump off of the diving board I used to cling to. We go bowling and I let her win. The sapling is now a full-grown adult, it drops acorns on us and instead of it just being my spot, it’s ours. The screaming in my head has subsided, it’s not even close to being a stream anymore. It’s more like a broken faucet. Drip. Our love is like acid reflux. And the beginning of a roller coaster. I’m a loser, but she likes that somehow. We’re magnetic. It’s scary and wonderful. And nothing like bowling.  
I bet you were wishing that this story would have some tragedy, maybe some violence or heartbreak even. But it won’t. 

“Hi,” She says, grass falling through her fingers. She loves me, she loves me not.  
I smile. “Hey.”  
“So, are you ever going to tell me what Mic is short for?”  
I smile again. “Michaela.”

She loves me.


End file.
